


Hannibal Porn (Various)

by Exorin



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Asphyxiation, GOREPORN, Gore, Masturbation, Mounting, Snippets
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 16:05:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 7,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7539103
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Exorin/pseuds/Exorin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Various fic/snippets copied over from Tumblr. Please see each chapter title for ships.<br/>All are standalone and explicit.</p><p>Also. Please be aware that anything with Hannibal in it is violent, bloody goreporn.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hannibal/Will: The One Where Will Dreams

He knows what will happen before he closes his eyes, before he pulls off his shoes and socks and pants and climbs into bed- the towel already laid out against the sheets, pillow sweat-stained and dark from nights previous.  
  
He knows what will happen because it’s happened before.  
  
In those moments where the darkness slips in, wraps around him and takes him to sleep- he can see the outline, the shape of the man as he moves onto the foot of his bed, smooth and elegant, suit straight and pressed and neat.  
  
It will never be anyone but Hannibal.  
  
His breath hitches, as it always seems to, Hannibal’s hand curled around his ankle, skin to skin- warm, too warm and too familiar as it slides further up his leg, fingertips pressing underneath his knee, bending his right leg up to move between the comfortable, easy spread of his thighs.  
  
Hannibal’s mouth so close to his skin, hovering just above the jut of his hipbone, eyes dark and watching his reactions- the way he shifts underneath him, clenches his fists into the towel beneath him and arches upwards, just a touch, just enough to let Hannibal’s lips catch against his skin.  
  
“I would honour every part of you William, a rare desire, down to your very bones. I would use up every cell, every bare atom of your existence. If you would let me, I would pull you apart from your centre and fill myself with you.”  
  
And the words, as always, make his eyes slide shut- Hannibal’s hand stroked up his thigh, curved in and pressed against the hard, heavy line of his cock through the fabric of his boxers, Hannibal’s fingers strong and so tight and pulling a low, shaky, trembling gasp from his mouth as he moves against the towel, pulls the sheets more tightly into his fists to hold on.  
  
He can feel the smile, the slight curve of it as it graces Hannibal’s mouth, it goes along with the slide, the scratch of teeth along his abdomen, that sharp delicious spike of pain alongside the leisurely, slow stroke of fingers sliding over his cock- dampening his boxers with the drag of his leaking cockhead.  
  
His eyelashes flutter against his cheek as he tries to keep his eyes shut, knows what he’ll see if he opens them, has seen it before, has stained the sheets white and thick and warm with the thought of it, has woken sudden and sharp and gasping, the vision bright in the forefront of his mind.  
  
There’s another drag of teeth, calling him back, his stomach wet and warm from the workings of Hannibal’s mouth- his cock damp with the shifting pressure of Hannibal’s hand, the grip of his fingers and he can’t help it, can barely breathe when he looks down to meet the whites of Hannibal’s eyes.  
  
There’s a spill across his stomach, a thick, liquid red- and he’s bared open, spread wide with Hannibal watching him, gauging his reaction to the scene, mouth wet and smeared with blood. With his blood. Obscene and wrong and beautiful enough to cause his cock to twitch beneath Hannibal’s palm.  
  
There’s a hand inside him, wrist deep and the slide of it moving along his intestines, fingering and slipping around feels almost as good as the matching rhythm against his cock.  The wet, visceral sound of it goes to his head in the same way his blood tries to rush down, past the mess of him, to keep his cock full and begging up into Hannibal’s hand.  
  
“You make such delicious sounds when I have my hands in you William, I could almost swallow you whole.”  
  
They’re hard to hear over the sound of blood rushing in his ears, pouring from his stomach, or the loud, ever slowing beat of his heart against his rib cage  but he can hear them now, his own broken gasps, and moans, desperate shaken cries that break from his throat, that wash over Hannibal and make his eyes darken- his fist tightening inside him, around him, pulling him apart, holding him together.  
  
Towards the end he feels as though his brain has melted together, merging pain with pleasure and violence with love- Hannibal’s face pressed into the hole of him, tongue tracing along his innards, swallowing his blood, wet with it, teeth against the soft tissue of his flesh digging in and pulling him to pieces.  
  
The hand against his cock gone, pushing inside of him instead, crawling into the heat of him-  
and even without the stroking of Hannibal’s fingers he’s still arching, clinging to the sheets, hard and moaning, a desperate kind of depravity, locked only into these moments, into the few hours of half-sleep he finds in a night.  
  
And when he wakes, fully and quickly and gasping, sitting up in the dark,  his body cold and wet with sweat, the cooling pool of come lined across his abdomen- he wishes he could sleep again, scared that he’ll never feel as whole as he does with Hannibal’s hands inside him.


	2. Hannibal/Will: The One That's Kinda Vague

The ceiling is stuccoed white, the little points look like stalactites above him- ready to fall, to puncture his skin, to bring him closer to the edge of everything.

There’s breath against his stomach, too hot, close to burning and he wants to shift away from it, twist in his sheets and break away in the same way he wants to rise up into it.

The air tastes like like rusted metal, like copper, like the tang of blood against the roof of his mouth- his lips are dry when he sweeps his tongue across them.

His name is pressed to his skin,

_William_

the sound of it drags like a caress against his ears, forces his eyes down to the call of it.

There’s lines painted onto his skin, onto his stomach- red and vivid against the white of him, still wet, a design he can’t recognize.

Fingers on his skin, surprisingly soft, gentle and warm with paint, with blood, skimming lower and pulling the red along the curve of his hipbone.

Hand curled, circled, a drag of fingers, sticky and thick and bright- squeezed and tight and certain.

A lift of hips, an exhale, and a sharp sudden ache in his stomach, his chest- blinding white and burning,

_I want to consume you._


	3. Hannibal/Will: The One With the Mounting

Hannibal’s hand is on his chest, centered, strong, steady, pressed against his sternum, palm flat- he moves towards Will, purposeful, each step he takes forward pushing Will back a little more, forced to follow the strength of the push, the shove, the movement.

He’s shirtless, half-bared, sleepwalking or still safe on the thin, threadbare mattress in his room- he isn’t sure or it doesn’t matter, not with the heat of Hannibal’s hand against his skin, too hot and too intimate, especially with the way Hannibal is, as ever, fully dressed, layered and styled and matching down to his socks. 

They’re in the antler room, Hobbs’ cabin, the wooden floor cold and creaking underneath his bare feet and Will’s unsure of how they’ve gotten here, knows it must be a dream, a vision, a hallucination but it smells too close, too real- like must and death and Hannibal’s aftershave.

With another step, another push he can feel the jagged bones against his back, can feel the sharp puncture of them breaking the flesh of his shoulders, his lower back, the wet heat of his blood slipping down along the curves of him, a thin line.

There’s a hitch in his breath, caught just below the surface, held back as Hannibal moves closer, maneuvers him back against the curved spikes of antler and it doesn’t hurt like he’d expected, doesn’t burn and push and make him want to arch away from the way they’re sinking deeper into him, splitting open his back, mounting him there.

“I would keep you here forever William,” Hannibal says,  drums his fingertips over the beat of Will’s heart while sliding his other hand between the closeness of their bodies, over the jut of Will’s hipbone, further down, stroking over the denim of his jeans and tracing the hard press of Will’s cock, his mouth pressing the words, hot, along the line of Will’s jaw, teeth dragging over the skin towards his ear, “only for me. My prize for patience." 

Another push, another slide, the thickness of the bone widening him, urging his flesh to open, to submit, tearing easily, eagerly, digging through muscle and sinew and pushing up against his organs, his liver, his spleen- sliding back further with Hannibal breathing against his earlobe, half panting, obscene.

 Hannibal’s fingers curl around him, around the too desperate, too willing, roll of his hips, around the thick, blood engorged heat of his cock, beating his pulse against Hannibal’s palm- and he can feel the wet heat, pouring down his back now, can hear the drops of it as it rolls off of him and hits the floor, can feel the way Hannibal inhales sharply and steps back, leaving Will balanced on his tip-toes and splayed open for the looking- soaking, red-coated bone, curved out from his chest, from his stomach, pinned and mounted and opened, exposed.

And it’s not a touch that drives him over the edge, not the feel of Hannibal’s hand spread over his cock, pulling his orgasm from him- it’s in the way the corner of Hannibal’s mouth twitches up into a smile, it’s in the way he leans forward, his eyes dark and locked onto Will’s and opens his mouth around the thick, bloody point of bone, it’s in the way his tongue drags along the antler as he slides his lips around it and takes it into his throat.


	4. Hannibal/Will: The One That Gets Added Into Someone Else's Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is an insert to a fic by [the Ever Talented Eli](http://archiveofourown.org/users/confettiinmyhair).

It was the noises Will made in his sleep that brought him here, (that, and his own curiosity of course), down the stairs from his own bedroom, down to sit in his recliner chair, directly in front of Will- his chin resting on the tops of his fingers, leaning forward a little to catch every stray motion before him.

Will was firmly, completely asleep- relaxed and calm for what must have been the first time since they had first met, so open and exposed to him, easy in a way that would have normally been a little too difficult to resist.

But he had more in store for Will, so much more. 

The first sound from Will’s mouth was a low, broken sob- something so heartwrenchingly pure and desperate that he could barely stay seated, couldn’t stay, wanted to get closer, to smell the changes in Will’s body, the way that the dreams changed him.

He moved closer, crouching over the couch, looming over Will- watching as Will subconsciously bit at the flesh of his lower lip and groaned, his body shifting beneath the light sheet draped over him, stretching out, making the angles of his body noticeable, the curves of him beneath his clothing.

The sudden desire to touch could not be crushed, could not be stamped out, was palpable in the room as he knelt beside the sleeping man and ran his tongue along the stubbled skin of Will’s jaw- sweat and fear and arousal against his taste-buds as he dragged his teeth along that edge, not enough to mark but just enough to get the taste of him.

Will moaned again and he was unsure of the stimuli, if it was the newly vocalized erotic nightmares or the physical reaction to the press of his mouth as it trailed down over Will’s throat, delicately tasting the pulse of his heart- feeling it beat against his lips, trying not to bite down against the tease of it.

Again Will shifted, moving, turning to face him, hips rolling forward ever so slightly- and there was no keeping the smile from the corners of his lips, his hand sliding to drag the sheet from Will’s body.

He had to keep it clean, he recognized, despite their closening relationship- as there was really no telling how long it’d take Will to return to him if he were to wake up here, alone, sticky and stained with come. 

His fingers found Will’s belt easily, his eyes never leaving the lines of Will’s face- his fingers worked the leather open, slid it apart just enough to get the button and zip of Will’s jeans opened as well, pushing his hand between the folds to curl around the thickening weight of Will’s cock.

Will gasped in his sleep, his lips parted, breathing deeply, filling his lungs up- his hips moving of their own volition, thrusting up into the tight fisted circle of fingers. 

He stroked his way up the length of Will’s cock, fisted down and twisted his wrist _just so_ \- just enough to make Will’s back curve, arch, even in sleep, and if he listened closely, he could hear the whispered, broken, pleading that broke from Will’s throat, laid out underneath the moans for he, and he alone to hear.

And he felt the moment, _la petite mort_ , in the tightening of muscles, Will’s heart pumping blood through his veins- could feel it all under the press of his fingertips and he found himself lining his mouth up with his previous mark, still there, still bruised into Will’s shoulder and biting down until Will was coming over his knuckles, still taken by his sleep.


	5. Will/Himself: The One Where Thinking of Women is Not Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Goreporn. Will thinking of women to get off, having them be twisted and horrific just leads him to Hannibal.

He’s half-hard, frustrated, face down, buried into his pillow, his fingertips itch, pressed and held against his abdomen. He knows what he wants, what he needs, and it isn’t release- it’s the twenty minutes of sleep that comes with it.

He hasn’t slept in days, or weeks, or months, or however long it’s actually been- but it doesn’t matter, time doesn’t matter, not really, not with the buzz of static behind his eyelids every time he slides them shut, the low hum of it in his ears, in his head, shaking down to the tips of his fingers, his toes, keeping him awake.

His fingers inch lower, drag across his skin, and he wishes he wanted this- really wanted it, wanted the quick, efficient, push, pull, slide of his own hand- wanted the feel of it, the burn low in his stomach, the tight, throbbing heat between his fingers, the wet, sticky release.

But he just wants sleep.

He tries to think of the last woman he slept with, dark hair and bright eyes, soft and warm and malleable under his fingertips- the hot, tight clench of her as he slipped inside, the sound of her breath against his ear, gasping,

_crying out as he twists the knife into her, watching her part underneath of him, skin split and dripping red over his knuckles, smooth and slick and damp._

He groans, disgusted, and tries to ignore the quickening of his pulse- the thickening, heavy weight of his cock squeezed between his circled fingers, or the way his hips roll downwards, push forward, grind him down against the sheet- he tries to ignore what the imagery does to his body.

He squeezes his eyes closed, urges the picture away, tries to find another to replace it- a woman with her back to him, her skirt pulled up over her hips, bent over and holding on to the wooden ridges of a desk. Her skin is soft when he runs his fingers along the curves of her, soft and,

_cold, rigid, stiff. His hand is on her shoulder before he can help it, pulling her over to face him- blank, lifeless eyes, her chest ripped open from sternum to navel, blood and innards spilling out over his feet._

He has to bite the sheet to keep from moaning, a broken, frustrated, desperate sound that gets lost to the fabric- his fist drags down his cock, his hips jerking down to keep the friction, and he’s so hard, so wet with precome, his palm getting sticky with it, so close to wearing himself down to finally sleep that it doesn’t matter what he’s thinking about.

He turns his head to the side on his pillow, his breathing shaky and quick and he can feel his body trembling, shivering, his eyes open and watching the drapes spread across his window, moving with the gentle wind. 

He takes a breath, pulls in all the air he can, filling his lungs with it- his body still pushing forward, cock sliding slow and easy through the slip of his fist, and he knows he only needs a little push, a little bit more, and he closes his eyes.

He’s staring at the ceiling, laying on his back, his feet dangling off the side of the mattress and there’s heat around his cock, wet and warm and open for the taking and he reaches down, winds his fingers into thick, soft hair before looking down to find her- she’s smiling around the heavy width of him, her lips red and swollen and gorgeous and,

_split at the corners, gaping open, there are hands held against her cheek, against her throat, strong, male hands- keeping her upright, keeping her mouth locked around the heavy slide of his cock. The mans sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, fingers, wrists, forearms coated in blood, so familiar._

**Hannibal.**

And he opens his eyes, squeezes them shut again, tighter-

_there’s a dull thud as the girl is dropped to the ground and then Hannibal’s hands are on his knees, fingertips dragging her blood along his skin, “You’re looking for something else Will.” Hannibal says, voice low, half whispered, “Let me help you find it.”_

His body tenses, hips jerked quickly into the circle of his fist and he has to bite his lip, bite through his lip, to stop the sound he makes when he comes, white and thick and sticky, over his knuckles, against the sheets.


	6. Will/Female, Hannibal: The One Where Will Needs a One Night Stand

There’s condensation on his glass and it makes it slippery against his already sweaty palm, his fingertips drum, without rhythm, against the polished, wooden surface of the bar-

he’s out of sorts shifting slightly on his bar-stool  he let’s his legs fall open a little, his already half-hard cock dragging up against his boxers, against the denim of his jeans.

He still hasn’t slept more than half an hour a night, broken down into half-seconds and restless intervals of three to five minutes- filled with dreams, twisted, fragmented things with blood and steady hands that slide through him, into him.

He shakes his head, clears those thoughts away- it’s not what he wants to think about right now, not when he wants to build his adrenaline so high that he has to crash- what he wants is the exhaustion that comes from emptying himself into a convenient encounter, a faceless, reckless, mindless fuck.

It won’t be the first time he’s done this, probably won’t be the last. 

He feels barely conscious as he leans over, feeling light, almost floating- his lips against her ear, trailing words that he won’t remember in the morning- soft, filthy things that make her gasp and smile and take his hand to lead him from the bar

He’s standing too close behind her, hands on her hips, breath against her neck, as she fumbles with the keys to her apartment building- she’s a tease, pushing her ass back against him and grinding and his fingers are already pulling her tight black skirt up before they’re even into the stairwell.

When the door swings open inwards they both fall forward, her underneath of him and he doesn’t have time to catch her before he can hear the loud echoing smack of her head hitting the handrail- can smell the sudden burst of copper in the air when she laughs and says she’s alright, already pushing herself up onto her knees, spreading her legs and leaning over the stairs, asking him to take her here.

She turns her face to him, glancing over her shoulder and he can see the line of red slipping down from her temple- his cock throbs in his pants, fills, thickens at the sight of her blood and he hates himself for it even as he flicks open the button on his jeans, works the zipper down and pulls his cock out to the sound of her moaning.

Her cunt is already so wet, so ready when he slides the head of his cock along the length of her, teases her into opening around him- and when she does, he pushes forward, sinks into her in one long slide, driving himself into the heat of her body.

His eyes slip closed, hips moving, driving forward and back on instinct alone and he’s only vaguely aware of her beneath him, of the way she’s gasping and crying out with every hard shove of his cock- his fingers digging into her hips hard enough to redden the skin, hard enough to bruise, the crescents of his nails biting marks into her flesh.

_“This isn’t what you need.”_

His hips stutter, break the pacing, his breath a stuck hitch in his throat- he squeezes his eyes shut tighter and tries to shake away the sound of that voice against his ear.

_“This isn’t even what you desire.”_

He can feel the heat of hands resting on his shoulders, knows that he’s hallucinating, even if the drag of teeth against his neck feels so incredibly real.

_“Look at her,”_

And he does, looks down at the expanse of her back, at the way her skirt is bunched up around her hips, her shirt pushed up to open more skin to him and his fingers have already left lines there, have already dragged across her skin and made it red.

_“wouldn’t you rather see her like this?”_

Her back arches, her cunt squeezing tight around his cock, he can feel her coming around him, soaking wet and pulsing even as he watches her back splitting open beneath his hands- she opens along her curved spine, spills blood across the pale white of her skin and he knows he’s imagining it- imagining the way her body cools beneath his fingers as her skin slips away.

_“That’s it.”_

He moans, a broken, desperate noise that he tries to catch in his throat before it’s out- his stomach turns as he watches her, this bloody, fragmented, thing underneath of him and he pulls back, jerks back, lets his cock fall from the cold heat of her. And he’s already shoving himself back into his pants when she turns to look at him, confused, sated, exhausted, a mix of emotions- her body put back together in a blink of an eye, but he’s already out the door before she can say anything.

He ends up in the darkness of the parking lot, wedged between two cars, dropped down onto his knees with his hands in his pants, his fingers circled around the thick, heavy weight of his cock, sliding fast.

_“No more running away Will."_

And he looks up, past the clean, neat shoes, the pressed and pleated pants, the vest, the matching button up shirt, and he catches the other man’s eyes for a fleeting second, there’s an affectionate smile there and it makes him sob, half-broken, while his hips jerk into his fist, making him come hard, spilling thick and warm over his knuckles.


	7. Will/Himself, Hannibal/Will: The One With The Hallucinations

He presses the cassette down into an old, beaten up stereo- one he had to dig out of the very back of his storage locker, behind the mess of boat motors he swears he’ll get back to one day, behind the tackle boxes, the bait boxes, behind the little pieces of his old life.

It crackles to life, a static buzz layered in the back of the recording, evens out until his brain barely even registers that it’s there- he lays down on his bed, staring at the stucco of his ceiling and closes his eyes, listens to the hum.

_Two weeks ago he’d walked into Dr. Lecter’s office to discuss a case and walked out with the recording in his pocket- the doctor had taken one look at him, a long, searching look from his feet to his face and asked him how much sleep he’d had the night before._

_He’d tried to laugh it off, a short burst of breath in the form of amusement but Dr. Lecter could see right through him, always seemed to be able to- the doctor had walked over the desk, opened the third drawer down and pulled from it the cassette, handing it to him with a small smile gracing the corners of his mouth, “Try this.”_

_The first time he listened to it was the first time he had slept for more than an hour._

_Six days ago he’d woken to the sound of Dr. Lecter’s, no, Hannibal’s, voice, soft and low and cutting through the silence of his room, speaking in calm, hushed tones about relaxation and the state of the mind- and he’d been hard, incredibly so, straining up against the confines of his already tight boxers._

_He’d hated the feel of it when he woke fully, that twist in his stomach- like being caught for something you shouldn’t be doing, like betraying a trusted friend. And he’d ground his teeth together, squeezed his eyes shut and reached out to stop the tape even as he’d slid his hand underneath the elastic band of his boxers and brought himself off._

_He had to go a full night without sleep again before realizing that the cassette was the only thing putting him down, the only thing giving him even a semblance of rest, a small, saving grace given to him by Hannibal._

He’s close to getting used to it now, concerningly so, always barely awake when it happens, laying right at the edge of sleep, on the cusp of waking- where he can still hear the recording Hannibal gave him, can hear it buzzing, a static hum in the backdrop of his mind, with Hannibal’s voice surrounding him, sinking into him.

He has an arm flung over his eyes, still shut, his other hand palm-flat to his stomach, fingers stroking over his skin, dragging down over the curves of his hipbone, following the slope downwards through thin, coarse hair, the tips of his fingers stopping at the base of his cock to curl around the width of him and Hannibal says, _“Just relax, take a deep breath._ ” on the cassette.

And he inhales, slow, shaky, taken in between his lips, through his opened mouth, filling his lungs up as his fingers circle around his cock, squeeze and tug- a slow moving, lethargic, pull of his wrist that makes him shiver and groan. 

His hips shift up, push his cock through the fist of his fingers even as he rolls over in his sleep, face pressed down against his pillow and arm, and hand, and cock trapped between his body and the mattress. 

He can hear Hannibal speaking in the distance, close to drowned out by the blood rushing in his ears, the throbbing pulse of his cock squeezed between his fingers- his mouth is full of fabric, nose shoved down against the sheets and he gasps, tries to breathe in past his suffocating surroundings.

His pillow is not inanimate anymore- taking instead the shape of a hand, male and strong and smelling like cloves and spices, the fingers closed tightly around his throat, thumb pressing sharp and steady against the side of his neck, just below his ear, and he groans, low, arches his neck down into the strength of that hand as the recording says, _“Let it overcome you.”_

There are thighs straddling his hips from behind, a heavy pressure anchoring him down to the mattress, a weight leaning over him, breath against his ear, fingers tightening a little more around his throat- urging him to tighten his own around the hard, thick heat of his cock and rut down, _“Let it take you completely.”_

And later, when he wakes up, he’s sweating, still face down against his pillow with the backs of his thighs trembling, muscles stretched and tight and aching and a cooling mess smeared across his stomach.

He misses his appointment that afternoon.


	8. Hannibal/Will: The One That Might Be Triggering

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end two lines are potentially triggering. This is a short fic about Will trying to get into the head of serial killer who's strangling women and Will makes a reference to them wanting it, because it's something he himself has asked for.

He looks nervous, must look nervous, knows what he’s here to ask about- thinks, no, knows that he can find the help he needs here, in Dr. Lecter’s office.

There’s been a series of murders, again, always- the victims strangulated and left hanging; their hands bound above their heads with their own belts. Jack thinks it’s crimes of passion, but he’s not sure anymore- he can barely get a hold on the killer, thinks that maybe it’s time he try getting to know the victim instead.

“And you think that I have the answers you seek?" 

And, no, actually, he doesn’t think that- he thinks that maybe, just maybe, he trusts Dr. Lecter enough with himself to step into the shoes of the victims- knows that he gives himself away with the way he glances, fleetingly, towards the structure-bearing pole in the doctor’s office- knows it in the way Hannibal says, "Oh.”

He backtracks, takes it back with clumsy words, his fingertips digging into the armrest of his chair, he mumbles something about _not having to_ , but the doctor is already standing, circling around the desk to stand in front of him, to look down at him.

“Tell me about the method Will.”

And he does, let’s it rush out from between his lips in one long breath- the victims, found dead, bruises around their necks, the imprint implying only one hand was used; a strong man then, someone with large hands. The way it must have started out consensual, the use of their own belts to restrain them- or, maybe, maybe they were drugged, out of it; he’s not sure or can’t decide, needs to know.

He doesn’t realize he’s standing until he’s already pressed back against the beam, Hannibal standing in front of him, one hand extended, asking silently with a slight raise of an eyebrow- he knows what he’s being asked, makes the briefest slide of eye contact before dropping a hand to his pants, unhooking and slipping the leather out from under the belt-loops.

“You are in a safe environment here Will, I will stop when asked, or urge you harder when needed. Give me your belt.”

His hand is shaking, or, maybe his entire body is trembling, he can’t tell as he hands over the length of leather to the doctor- places it in his hands and shoves down the shaky intake of breath when Hannibal’s thumb brushes over his skin.

The world tints a little as he raises his arms up, brighter, more vivid and Dr. Lecter is almost a blur- a nameless, faceless killer standing before him, tightening the belt around his wrists, around the pole with methodical movements.

He’s sure he’s talking, walking himself through it, falling into the killer’s design- stretching his arms, feeling the pressure of the leather biting into his skin, held steady. 

It’s not until Hannibal’s fingers slip around his throat that he realizes how bad of an idea this was, wonders if his victims felt the same panic just before, imagines so- the heat of the doctor’s palm against his jugular, a thumb stroking along his jaw, fingers tightening just hard enough to limit the flow of oxygen. 

He’s dizzy already, his head pressed back against the support beam, his arms instinctively pulling at the restraints, flailing almost, with only Hannibal’s hand grounding him, keeping him there.

And just as he feels the world tightening to a pinpoint, the blackness cascading in around him, the fingers loosen, just a little, and he gasps, pulls as much air into his lungs as he can manage- his head is throbbing as he comes back from the edge, with Doctor Lecter’s fingers stroking gently over his skin. 

It’s only a moments reprieve though, a tease, Hannibal’s fingers pressing down once more, curling around his throat to hold him- and he arches, his body moving without his brain’s consent, presses up against the doctor’s palm.

“Do you think they felt like this Will?”

Hannibal’s voice is soft, curious, cutting into the spinning, leveling him out just enough to realize that he’s hard, straining hard actually- his jeans suddenly too restricting, his cock dragging up against his boxers, aching.

“Do you suppose they enjoyed this loss of control? Did they enjoy how close to death they were? Are you enjoying it Will?”

If he could breathe, he’s sure he’d gasp, or moan, or break- but as he is, he can only let his head fall, can only stop struggling. And he’s so lightheaded, everything going blurry, grey and black- just left with two points of interest, two points of attention; Hannibal’s hand and the pulsing beat of his cock.

“Would you like to stop here?”

And the fingers loosen up once more, the oxygen flooding him with every shaky breath- his body humming, every part of him, numb and alive at the same time; in the same moment.

Hannibal swims back into focus and he can still feel the soft, sliding press of the doctor’s fingers stroking along his jaw, his throat, tracing over the marks that he knows are there already, the bruising of his skin- and he’s still so hard, the dizziness making him irrational, or he tells himself that as he sobs; a half-broken, silent thing, and lifts his neck up against the stroking of Hannibal’s hand.

The doctor looks at him, catches his eyes for just a moment, an eyebrow raised, fingers pressing down once more and he doesn’t stop the hitch in his breath, doesn’t swallow the words down, let’s them fall from his throat, uneven and a kind of desperate he’s never allowed himself before. _Don’t stop._

Hannibal’s fingers around his throat, pressing and holding and limiting his breath, more purposeful now, dragging, pulling him down into unconsciousness- his cock throbbing and hips pushing, straining for any kind of pressure, finding none and still, still, he feels the clench and release, the back of his thighs aching as he arches, almost lifted from the ground with the force of his orgasm.

And just before he blacks out he thinks that maybe, 

just maybe, they asked for it. 

Like he did.


	9. Hannibal/Will: The One With Rimming

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is pretty OOC, just FYI.

His fingers press into the wood, nails digging in against the curve of it, holding on- his knees hurt from the way they’re spread, open and wide and slipping against the desk- head down, ass up with his eyes closed and mouth open.

And Hannibal is somewhere behind him- he can feel him there even without _feeling_ him. 

There’s breath, warm and close and damp- across his ankle, along his calf, higher, hotter, sending lines of heat to the juncture of his thighs, the heavy, weighted line of his cock hanging between the spread of his legs.

And Hannibal makes an appreciative noise- the breath climbs higher.

A mouth against his skin, teeth dragging along his left flank, tongue hot and wet and pressed against his flesh- tasting, teasing, making his breath hitch and catch and get caught in his throat. 

Fingers trailing up his leg, nails scratching, in-between his thighs, around and up, squeezing the firm rise of his ass- kneading the flesh even as that mouth, _his_ mouth moves in and up and _between_.

And Hannibal groans, low and throaty- the vibrations so close, so _close_.

Teeth digging in, biting down into his right cheek, hard enough to bruise, to mark, to puncture the skin- his leg slipping further, spreading him open to the point of pain, his thighs shaking, body struggling to stay up and he feels like he’s being _eaten alive_.

He bites down against the edge of the desk, moans around the wood, chokes and gasps and whimpers- half-sobs when teeth press down again, mouth closed over the mark, sucking, then soothed quickly with a tongue dragging over the tender flesh,and his hips push back instinctively  more or less or everything is what he wants.

And Hannibal holds him with both hands- spreads him open.

The thick heat of a tongue between the opened-spread of his cheeks, dragging over the tight puckered ring of his hole- and he’s trembling, holding onto the desk with both hands until his knuckles are white.

Tip pressed into him, wet and pushing, slipping inside of his body and there’s fingers digging into his skin, leaving bruises- little crescent half-markings that’ll last for weeks. That mouth open over his hole, tongue working, sucking, making him close to incoherent- saliva across the wood under his chin, his mouth open and breath gasping.

And Hannibal makes him come- with only his tongue.


	10. Alana/Herself: The One With Masturbation

She can still feel the slide of his mouth against hers, the fullness of his lips, the way his teeth dragged along her lower lip, the curl of his tongue into her mouth-

And he was so needy in it, his hand on her shoulder, fingers pulling at the fabric for grip, for something to keep himself righted with, a crutch-

It’s why she had stopped, not just because of the soft noise he had made into her opened mouth, or the way the wall split behind him, but because of the way he had leaned against her-

But alone now she can close her eyes, ignore the press of his hand and the fragility of his mind and think about the drag of his mouth, the heat of it as he fit it to hers, slid into her-

Her right hand on her thigh, fingers curled towards the heat at the juncture of her legs, nails against pale skin and climbing higher-

There’s a hitch in her throat, a moan, a sound held back even as her fingertips slide over the soft line of her panties, pressing in, feeling the warmth and dampness of herself through them-

Her left hand on her stomach, just under her untucked shirt, skin to skin, and slipping down under the hem of her skirt, just a dip, just a tease, low enough to press fingers through short, coarse hair, before trailing higher-

Over the silk of her bra, over the laced line along the rise of her breasts, a squeeze, a thumb flicking over her nipple, over the material, a groan bitten back, stopped and held with her eyes fluttering closed, long eyelashes against her cheek-

Her fingers slip under the edge of her panties, hover over the wet heat of herself, the tip of her middle finger sliding through the damp, a slow line up the length of her to the round, sensitive place at the point-

Her thumb pressing over it, circling slow, gentle, soft, her middle finger pushing between the folds of her, slipping inside, easy with the wetness, her index and ring finger holding her lips opened-

And she gasps, bites down against her lower lip, presses harder, pushes in a little more, curling her finger up and over and her left hand slides up her neck-

Over the ridges of her collarbone, fingers folding around her throat to keep his name down, to stop herself from giving it life, from making it too real-

Her index finger joins the middle, slipping into the damp heat of her, the soft wet noise of it reaching her ears and she has to hold her neck a little tighter to keep the sound of her moans down, her thumb circling fast, pressing harder and her back curves as she gains momentum, her mouth falling open-

And, oh, oh fuck, three fingers deep now, her hips jerking down, her wetness dripping down the insides of her thighs, and yes, oh god, oh please, yes, Will.


	11. Alana/Freddie: The One With Cunnilingus

She’s not sure how, _“I can get you an interview”_ led to this, but she’s never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so to speak-

Especially not when there’s a gorgeous brunette sucking on the flesh of her high, inner thigh, hands pushing her legs opened wide to make room to work-

And the wooden desk isn’t the most comfortable thing she’s ever been laid out on, but that mouth is moving higher, getting wetter, tongue, a scratch of teeth and a squeeze of fingers hooked under her kneecaps-

Besides, it gives her something to curl her manicured fingertips around, both hands fisted on the edge of the table, and fuck-

_Alana-_

Those fingertips spreading her open, holding her lips separated  breath hot and warm against the heat of her-

With her skirt shoved up and pantyhose half off, dangling from her left foot, her heels already lost to the ground, shirt unbuttoned, head tilted off the desk, red hair falling in a mess, her thighs aching from the stretch, trembling-

A tongue slipped along the line of her, tasting the damp heat, slow, devastatingly slow, and again, and again, each time slower, softer, making her arch her back up, curve it from the wood, rock down against the tease-

_Come on Doctor Bloom-_

A low laugh, a squeeze of fingers around her calf and suddenly the full attention of that mouth, a dip of tongue, a slide, a flick, passing over her, finding that little bundle of nerves and lighting her up-

Fingers teasing her open, one pushing through, sliding into the wet heat of her, curled and searching and two, and three, and oh-

_Oh._


	12. Bella/Herself: The One That's Kinda Depressing

She can’t explain why she’s stopped feeling sexy around him-

Though, she thinks that maybe it started around the time she started lying to him about that broken, horrible thing forming inside of her-

But still, laying here, on her own and so far away from him she feels like herself, worries that maybe there’s something broken on the outside too, between them-

No-

She tries not to think, closes her eyes to the light streaming through the window, between the folds of the curtains, presses the button, starts the hum-

Remembers the feel of him, forgets the rest-

Runs the vibrating cylinder along her inner thigh, feels it against her palm, against her skin, her silk nightdress pushed aside- 

Strokes up, down, slow, soft, switches legs in an easy motion, purposely avoids the damp, warm juncture between her legs, keeps it going-

Her other hand beside her hip, tangled into the sheets, fisted, holding on as the machine climbs higher, brushes against the lips of her, and in between, slides through the wetness-

Please, forget-

A click, a louder hum, her manicured fingertips wrapped tight around the circle of it, letting it pulse against her-

Her hips canting down, a slow roll of them, a shaken jerk forward, back, the tip of it dipped into her, thin and slick and still filling-

Her mouth is parted, gasps rushed and hitched and breathing uneasy-

She can feel the dampness of herself against her thighs, the wet, warm noise of it humming inside of her, fingers almost pushing in with it-

Her back, oh, it bends, arches, curves just right with the tilt of her hips, and yes-

Yes-

She forgets for a moment.


End file.
